When Reichenbach Fell
by Wayfaring Snowflake
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Between Reichenbach and the next series. There WILL be spoilers. Hinting at Sherlock/John. John/Sarah.


**~~SHERLOCK~~**

Cold. Cold. He was cold. Since his "fall" at Reichenbach he couldn't breathe. He couldn't sleep, though he rarely did in the first place. He wasn't an emotional man. If there was anything anyone could ever assure you in life, it was that Sherlock Holmes didn't cry. However, when he watched John visit his "grave" it very nearly broke him. He cried more that week alone than he had in his entire life. He obviously didn't sob. No, his dignity had been stripped far enough from him as it was. Half the world thought he was an insane fake. The other half didn't give a damn. All of them thought him to be dead. Except, of course, Mycroft. He had gotten a text from his brother the very next day telling him to stop being such a coward.

He trailed after John Watson from that day forward. He watched him. Made sure he was safe. No, Sherlock wasn't typically the kind to care for someone, but he cared for John. He had taken on a girlfriend. Sarah. Sherlock didn't understand why. It was obvious that she cared for him but he didn't reciprocate the feelings. John's mind was elsewhere.

Sherlock continued to hide in the shadows for the next two years. He kept John safe. Deferred death threats. Hell, he even kept a murderer from getting to him. _The idiots of the world, trying to kill a man's best mate after he's dead, _he thought to himself frequently.

A year and a half after his so-called death, the tears had stopped. They ceased to fall. He had closed himself off from the world again. He didn't feel. He didn't feel anything. John was in love with Sarah. They were engaged, and she was expecting. He had accepted that John would never come back to be his partner in crime, so to speak, again. At that, he decided that it was still the wrong time to reveal himself to his friend.

_You need me, _he typed into his phone quickly. He and his brother had been conversing for about a day now, strictly in texting. He must've had another dentist appointment. He stared down at the reply. _Why would I need the Zombie Detective? – MH. _Is that what they were calling him now? The Zombie Detective? He asked. _The world's only, _Mycroft replied. He asked about John. Of course Mycroft knew he had been following him. Military persona back for a year. Limp back. Engaged. Nothing he didn't already know. It would break any normal man's heart. But not his. No. He had stolen the nickname from his brother at this point. He was the Ice Man. What little heart he had before was gone, and that alone would be heartbreaking for anyone else who could see him. For there had been so little to begin with.

**~~John~~**

Broken. The tears fell from his face one after another. He hadn't cried this hard since he left the war originally. He stood before the plain looking black grave and knew that it was anything but plain. If anything, it summarized Sherlock's personality in one plain slab of black marble. He bent down and ran his fingers along the words, letting out a dry sob. This was the third day he'd been here. Not this month, this week. It was only Wednesday. He wouldn't continue to come back every day until Sherlock was there again, though. He refused to believe that the man was dead. He was far too clever to die such an unceremonious death.

Dead. The man who had run around the town with Sherlock was dead. That John Watson was no more. He started noticing more and more frequently the pain in his leg. His limp was back. Hell, he'd even had to get the bloody cane back. He sat in 221b that day. He got there at 9 am sharp and didn't leave until it was well into the night. Mrs. Hudson had, at some point, come and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. He wasn't sure when. He was numb to the world.

Numb. All feelings that he had ever experienced were gone. He was broken. Dead. Numb. Who knew that such an emotionless man could get such an emotional reaction from someone? Sally Donovan had told him that this would happen one day, as he recalled. She had said that one day he would be the cause of death. And he was. He, Sherlock Holmes, was the cause of the most fatal death that could ever possibly happen. His own.

A month or so later, he saw Sarah again. He had decided that it was time to move on. He couldn't, though. Sarah put up with him. She took care of him. She loved him no matter what, which made John feel like shit. He didn't love Sarah. He didn't even care for Sarah. He loved Sherlock. He missed Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock back. At night, he frequently found himself staring at the picture of him that is kept in the bedside table, yearning just to see that cold man again.

Countless times did he get texts telling him to go to 221b RIGHT THEN because that was Sherlock and he was back. He never went, though. Something always possessed him to believe that whoever it was was just trying to get a rise out of him. He was probably right, too. One day, though, he received an anonymous text telling him that if he wanted to live he wouldn't leave the house on that particular day. It reminded him, strangely enough, of Sherlock. He kept Sarah in that day as well. That was the day their soon-to-be Daughter was conceived.

He couldn't believe himself. They weren't married. He was in love with a man. How could he possibly let something like this happen? He told himself that it was for the best, though. That having a daughter would be the way to get over Sherlock. To finally accept that he was dead and gone and would never come back. John's limp was still present, though, and he didn't see it going away anytime soon.

He asked her to marry him that night. Sarah, that is. She said yes, of course. That made it at least somewhat better. It wasn't like he would just up and leave his pregnant fiance, was it? No. Of course not. There was only one thing in the world that could – would – ever make him do so, and that thing was no longer present in said world. That...person. He couldn't refer to Sherlock as a thing.

He still visited the grave every day, though. He told Sherlock stories of what went on in his life and how everyone got by without him. He told him stories of Mrs. Hudson and Sarah. Of Mycroft's latest antics. Of Sarah's and his engagement. He always parted with the same words. "Don't be dead." That alone brought tears to his eyes to simply think about. Oh, how he longed for the day when Sherlock would come out of hiding and prove the world wrong. The day that would never come. The impossible dream. He brushed away another tear and moved from the grave, going back to his bride-to-be.


End file.
